


Catch You Sleeping

by orphan_account



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Death, Don't read if U got emetophobia, Fluff, Kinda?, M/M, Not the sexy kind of smut, Slight Smut, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dan meets the love of his life in an army training camp.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a story someone very close to me once told me.

                Dan meets the love of his life in an army training camp.

                Or. Maybe we shouldn’t say ‘Dan’. We don’t want you to get too attached to him, do we? He’s known as Poodle. Partly because after the showers, his hair curls up tremendously, and partly because he’s easily excitable and prone to jumping on people’s laps.

                When he first sees the love of his life, he nearly does jump on his lap. But he restrains himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been jabbed in the jaw for getting too touchy. But… this man doesn’t look like he has a violent bone in him. It’s like looking into a mirror and seeing an older version of himself, he thinks – complete with a fringe flip.

                Da- Poodle bounces a bit on his heels, he can’t help it, and asks the man for his ‘name’, arm outstretched.

                “Potter,” he grins.

                Black hair and glasses. Of course he’s Potter. They shake hands, and Potter’s grip is rather flimsy. What _is_ this guy doing here? He couldn’t imagine the man holding a gun at all.

                -

                Later that day, they’re assigned beds next to each other. All Poodle can do to restrain himself from squealing is to land in Potter’s lap and cradle his head.

                “Jesus,” the man laughs, and he rests himself against his chest - simply enjoying the feeling of being touched (it’s been a while, leave him be). Poodle’s pulse is beating against Potter’s temple, and it’s so deeply intimate. They both feel it. They both tremble into each other.

                “I can see why you’re called poodle.”

                Poodle licks a big stripe up his cheek. Retching, Potter pushes him to the ground and giggles. They wrestle for a good 15 minutes, before someone shouts ‘get a room, gayboys’ at them.

                -

                The lights are out. From the inky blackness, a voice.

                “You’re the love of my life.”

                Poodle’s not asleep yet, too excited by the events of the day to rest properly. He thinks he’s speaking to no-one, just a room filled with sleeping men. He’s wrong.

                There’s a rustling sound to the left of him.

                “Am I?” a sleepy, familiar voice sounds.

                “Oh, uh, yes.”

                “Well… I guess you’re the love of my life too.”

                The smile of Poodle’s face sticks with him even during sleep. He wakes up, the muscles around his jaw hurting.

                -

                When they’re training, Potter can feel heavy eyes on him. They’re not the sneering, discerning ones he expected when joining the army – a gaze that could penetrate through him, see the real reason he had joined. No, they were loving, encouraging, and resembled that of a puppy when he looked back at them. When he wasn’t looking at them, he could still picture them perfectly. Mottled hazel. Warm like the summer sun that beat down on them both.

                “You’re the love of my life.” It echoes through his brain. His heart picks up slightly at the recollection. He thought he was joking when he said it, but now he’s not sure. Oh well. There might as well be some comfort for him in this inferno. Poodle must be the love of his life too.

                -

                For the first time in Potter's cold, stoical life, he feels fear. He was looking forward to all this. In some twisted way, he's always wanted to die shrouded in some sort of faux-glory, a halo of barbed wire and copper sheathed in his hair.

                But he was terrified. Not for himself, his brains could be blasted against the sand right now for all he cares. No. He's scared for the poor, dumb boy whose warm hand was resting in his.

                Poodle. His Poodle. Light of his something, fire of his whatever. He crawled into his tent, just like he knew he would. He almost wanted it, too. His breathing next to him was long and deep and regular. For their first night in war, Poodle was calmer than he expected him to be. He appears to be sleeping, but Potter can't be sure. He squeezes his hand.

                "Hmm?"

                He wasn't sleeping, then.

                “Hey.”

                “Hey.”

                Poodle nestles his neck into Potter, and Potter hates himself for sighing at the feeling.

                “Are you alright?”

                Poodle raises himself to look at him. “Yeah, why?”

                “Oh, I dunno,” Potter tries, avoid his gaze, “I’m just a little worried about you.”

                He dares himself to look back up at him. He’s met with a pretty, smiling face, lips slightly agape. And another 'first' happens in his life. Potter has the urge to kiss another man.

                So he does.

                It’s alright, actually. Poodle’s smiling against his lips for most of it, and it should feel awkward, but it’s not. And when they stop, they hold each other again. Like they did that first day, heads cradled into chests. Potter’s tricked into thinking Poodle’s sleeping again. He’s wrong. Again.

                “Why were you worried about me?”

                “Oh, I don’t know…” he counts the thump of Poodle’s heartbeat. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4… “I just don’t want anything to happen to you, y’know? You're the love of my life.”

                They fall asleep smiling. Next morning, they wake up to someone kicking their tent, shouting ‘rise and shine gayboys’.

                -

                _Hi mum!_

_I have met the love of my life here!_

_He’s known as Potter, and we are very happy together. The war struggles on, the end imperceptible, but each day I’m with him I feel like I’m coming home._

_I pray every day that you get to meet him._

_Love,_

_Dan :)_

 

            _Dear mum_

_My pay has been deposited. You know my bank details, withdraw as much of it as you like._

_I’m having a good time here, despite circumstances. I’ve met ‘the love of my life’, so to speak. He’s endearing, rather puppy-like. He’s coincidentally known as Poodle._

_If we are destined to come back in one piece, I’ll discover his real name and marry him. I assume I have your blessing._

_Love,_

             [illegible]

                -

 

                Dan, _Poodle_ , broaches the subject at night.  The elusive mystery that’s been weighing down his heart ever since he met him. The love of his life.

             A rose by any other name would smell... whatever. He wonders - is it possible to love someone whose name you don't know? Poodle feels like there's a barrier between them, preventing him from getting as close as he'd like. He'd even begun to refer to himself in his head as 'Poodle'. He felt a strange distance from himself because of it.

             Dan was in love with a man, deathly so, and that man's name wasn't Potter. He would find the real one out.

                “Potter,” and he nuzzles into his neck, arms clutched around his waist. He smells of dirt, metal and sweat. He inhales deeply.

                “Mhm.”

                “What’s your name? Your real name…”

                His body tenses in his arms, and against his nose, Poodle can feel the pulse in his neck quicken.

                “Go to sleep.”

                “Nice name.”

                Potter snorts, despite himself.

                “Come on. Please? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

                “Does that line usually work on the ladies?”

                “You’d be amazed.”

                They’re both giggling now, and in a few minutes Potter speaks again.

                “I’ll tell you my real name,” and he can feel Poodle’s face light up against his neck. He almost feels bad. “It’s Harry. Harry Potter.”

                “Oh, _fuck_ you.”

                “You wish.”

                “Goodnight, love.”

                “Goodnight.”

                They never broach the subject again. Poodle and Potter they remain, until death do them part.

                -

               "Wait, slow down a bit..."

                It hurts. There’s a mess of spit and Vaseline joining them together, and it still fucking hurts. Poodle’s way too tight around him. But in a strange way, Potter kind of enjoys it. He enjoys being as close as humanely possible to him. And judging by Poodle’s strained, yet smiling face, he’s kind of enjoying it too.

                Poodle pulls him down to him and holds him, gazing at the stars from their tent. His fingers dig into his back, and he never wants to let go. In this life – this short, insufficient lifetime – he can feel every minute pass, each second pulsing down his body in waves. And he knows, no matter how much time he’s given in these plains, it’ll never be enough. He’ll never be as close to Potter as he wants. It’ll only be close enough when they die together, intertwined, hearts and intestines spilling out of themselves.

                -

                Dan loses the love of his life in the army.

                He’s nonchalantly drinking cold soup out a tin when he finds out.

                When he’s told, he throws it all back up.

                -

                It was gory, but the rest of the troops have managed to wrap his mangled body up something decent. Dan watched them do it. There’s a bit of his skull missing, but it’s still Potter’s face gazing up at Dan. Crying, he closes both his eyelids, and watches as his tears drip onto Potter’s cold cheeks. If the wetness of his tears could have revived him, he’d have cried for the whole of Britain.

                -

                An official they’ve never seen appears before them, suited up for some reason. His head is bowed.

                “The funeral procession for Phillip Michael Lester is ready.”

                Dan gazes at all of the troops, and they gaze back, dumbfounded. _Who_ is Phillip Michael Lester?

                There’s silence. It takes a few seconds.

                Then he realises.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed, trooparinos.


End file.
